It was grand.

That was the first impression Moira had of the Anderson house. It was a grand thing, spreading out over a vast stretch of land, with smaller buildings all around.

She had only vague memories of Luthais Campbell’s house but could not remember being as impressed with it as she was as she rode up the wide trail beside Fergus’s wagon. And she’d been a child then, far more impressionable.

Now, she was painfully aware of the rags she wore, torn at the hem and ragged from days of wear. The only kirtle she had left after tearing the other into strips.

What would they think of her, the men and women who lived there?

Fergus beamed. “I never thought I would be so glad to see a place. The thought of resting my head upon a proper pillow tonight…”

“And a good, hot meal I do not have to catch for us,” Moira snorted.

“I had come to enjoy your cooking.” He winked.

“You ought to see what I can do in a proper kitchen, then.”

“For now, ye need not worry on such matters. Ye need only rest, enjoy being taken care of for once. Ye deserve it.”

Being taken care of? It had been twelve years since anyone had taken care of her. Even the few times illness had fallen upon her, she’d taken care of herself while maintaining the house.

And now, he expected her to rest.

What was a person to do with their time while resting?

As a child, she had enjoyed playing, but she was far too old for any such thing. Hiding in the woods from the twins had been something different. A way to keep them out of mischief.

This would not go well.

He must have seen her look of apprehension, for Fergus asked, “What is it, lass?”

She shrugged, feeling silly. “I do not know how to rest.”

He was kind enough not to laugh. “I suspect it will take time, though there is always something to do about the household, if ye truly wish to keep yourself busy.”

By the time they reached the wide courtyard which spanned the length of the house, the door was open, and several women had already poured out to watch their progress. Once again, the condition of her garment and the yellowed bruise which spanned the side of her face gave her discomfort when compared to their fresh-scrubbed loveliness.

Rodric dismounted and went straight to a woman who held a laughing, clapping bairn on one hip. This had to be Caitlin and their daughter, Gavina.

Quinn hurried to gather up his wife in his arms, and Ysmaine laughed and squirmed away—anyone could see she clearly loved her husband’s show of ardor, for all she tried to pretend otherwise. “Hardly three days have passed since you saw me!” She laughed, but this did not seem to matter.

The older woman whose long braid was streaked with gray had to be Sorcha, Moira supposed. She went to the wagon straightaway and shook her head. “My, my, Fergus MacDougal. Have ye not the sense God gave a sparrow? When a man comes at ye with a dirk, ye move out of the way!”

Moira gaped in surprise at this, but Fergus only laughed, and was soon joined by Sorcha, who patted his knee. She looked up at the still-confused Moira and offered an apologetic wince. “I am sorry, lass, if that sounded harsh to your ears. The lads know I only jest. It is greatly relieved I am to find him alive and well. And thanks to you, from what I’ve heard.”

“Aye,” Fergus replied, grinning with pride. “This is Moira Reid. She is the reason I’m still breathing.”

“Though he would not have been injured if it had not been for trying to rescue me,” Moira reminded him.

“Nonsense, lass.” Sorcha pushed back a bit of hair which had fallen in front of her face, then placed her hands on her hips. “Never blame yourself for the folly of foolish men, Moira. Those cutthroats got what was coming to them, and they were just wicked enough to harm the two of ye.”

She’d never heard it put quite that plainly before, and something in the woman’s words soothed her. Until that moment, she had not understood how much she blamed herself for Fergus’s brush with death.

It was not her fault those terrible men had captured her. Not her fault at all.

A young lad no older than Jamie or Iain offered to take care of the mare, so Moira dismounted. “Who are the lads who work in the stables?” she asked, curious, watching the boy lead her horse inside. “What brings them here?”

“Their families are part of Clan Anderson,” Fergus explained. “They might train one day to ride the land, patrolling its borders. Or they might remain in the stables, training the horses.”

“Ah.” Would that she might secure a position for the twins. But she was not part of the clan, nor were they. “They look well, the lads. Healthy, cared for.”

“You are thinking of the twins.”

Her gaze met his. “Who else?”

Moments later, another woman emerged from the house, carrying a bairn wrapped in a blanket. Brice’s face lit up at the sight of them.

“Fergus,” he said, wrapping an arm about the woman’s shoulders and joining her at the wagon. “This is your niece.”

“Her name is Elizabeth, for my mother,” Alana murmured, opening the blanket that Fergus might see the child’s face.

A strange, tight feeling gripped Moira’s chest, not unpleasant in the least. She realized how much she wished to give Fergus the chance to meet his own daughter someday.

What a daft thing to wish, as the two of them were not even wed.

Alana’s eye fell on Moira, who lingered nearby. “You must be Moira,” she smiled.

“Yes, I am.”

“Would you like to hold her?” Alana held the bairn out.

How could she have known how Moira’s arms ached to hold the precious babe? “Might I?”

“Of course.”

Memory after memory came back as she took the bairn into her arms. “It has been so long,” she chuckled, offering little Elizabeth a finger to hold. The tiny fingers latched on, squeezing tight.

“Ah, she wants to show ye how strong she is; who does that remind me of?” Fergus laughed.

Their eyes met.

Oh, yes. She wanted very badly to present his children to him one day.

Caitlin joined them, still holding her daughter. “We heard you had already raised children.”

“I did. My brothers.”

“Would that we’d had you here with us before now, as no one here seems to know what to do with the wee things,” she chuckled.

“Nay, I’ve never had any of my own,” Sorcha explained.

“We are all simply doing the best we can,” Alana shrugged.

“That is all you can do,” Moira pointed out, still smiling down at the bairn who had such a grip on her finger. “But I would be more than pleased to share what I learned.”

“What a blessing you are, then.”

A blessing.

She looked around herself as if to be certain she had heard correctly.

No one had ever called her a blessing before.

No one had ever fussed over her or praised her before she met Fergus.

There was nothing but sincerity shining from the faces all around her. They meant it. They were pleased to have her with them.

It suddenly seemed silly to have fretted so over her appearance.

“Come,” Sorcha said, taking her by the arm once she’d returned Elizabeth to her mother. “You’ll be needing a hot bath and plenty to eat. Ye look half-starved, poor thing. We shall fatten you up a bit, never you worry.”

Just like that, Moira found herself swept up in a sea of women, all of them moving her into the house as if on a current.

Somewhere between the courtyard and the entry hall, they claimed her as one of their own.

Padraig Anderson was younger than Moira had imagined him; a laird was normally older, or so she’d believed. Once Sorcha explained the history behind his taking the lead of the clan, she understood.

Instead of an old man standing at the head of the table, then, it was a young man who looked hardly old enough to handle the mug of wine which he raised into the air.

“It is glad I am to welcome Moira Reid to our table,” he said in a booming voice which did not seem to match his unassuming appearance. He was a large man by any standards but did not share the rugged build of his older brother. Instead of spending his life on horseback, Padraig had learned how to run a large clan and oversee the household, the spending, how to put an end to petty arguments among his men.

If the pleasant, efficient, comfortable household was what resulted from that, it seemed to Moira that he had spent his time wisely.

The rest of those gathered for the supper feast clapped and smiled, all eyes turned to her.

This was very new, all of it. She had no experience with a happy family.

“Thank you,” was all she could manage before embarrassment choked back anything else she might have offered.

Padraig seemed to understand this, as he moved away from her and onto a new topic while they tucked into their meal. And what a meal it was, servant girls running this way and that as Sorcha directed them to and from the kitchen. Roast of beef, meat pies, stewed vegetables, fresh breads, cakes, anything one might desire.

She was glad the kirtle Caitlin had insisted she have as her own was a bit loose, as Sorcha’s promise to fatten her up might have been closer to the mark than Moira could have guessed.

Fergus sat beside her, his uninjured leg touching hers. That simple touch, the knowledge of him sitting at her side, filled her heart to overflowing. He need not even say a word. He was there, at her side, and he was hers.

She’d never had anyone for her own. Had never dreamed a man would want her—nor that she would want a man, as all examples of manhood she’d seen before him had only disappointed and disgusted her.

What if she had grown up among such men as these? Strong, true, decent and honest men who fought hard for what was theirs? Life might have turned out far different had that been the case.

The twins came to mind once again, and it seemed a bit of the light left the room in spite of the blazing candles everywhere. They would never see anything like this, at least, not until they were older and perhaps invited to Tyrone Reid’s home in Aberdeenshire.

Even so, Clan Reid was nothing like this.

And by then, her brothers would already be men, and likely set in their ways. It would be too late.

“Ye look troubled.” Fergus’s voice at her side startled her from the dark turn her thoughts had taken.

“Not at all,” she attempted to lie.

He was not easily fooled. “You are thinking of the twins, are ye not?”

Rather than argue the fact, she simply nodded. “I miss them. It would be the one thing that might make me perfectly happy, just knowing they were well.”

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps, then, what I’m about to ask ye will seem flat and disappointing in comparison.”

She frowned, and in the back of her mind recognized the sudden silence up and down the length of the banquet table.

“What is it?” she murmured.

“I wanted to know if ye would honor our betrothment and become my wife.”

Her eyes bulged, and still, the entire rest of the room was silent as a grave. They knew he’d be asking.

“Fergus. MacDougal.” She stood, brushing away his hand. “Will you ever learn, you fool?”

“W—what?”

She threw her hands into the air. “I already told you once, and not that long ago! Had you not asked me for a kiss in front of all those people, you might have done a sight better that day. Twelve years later, you’re doing the same thing all over again! This time, it’s to ask me to marry you!”

The sound of barely-stifled laughter rang out behind her.

She whirled on the men whose mouths twitched. “And you! You’re no better than he! You knew he would be asking, and not one of you had the sense to tell him that perhaps a woman would wish to discuss such matters in privacy. All of you but Padraig are wed, and not one of you thought of this?”

She stunned the men into silence, including Padraig.

“Moira, we can discuss this elsewhere—”

She spun around to face Fergus again. “Oh, no, you’ll not be getting off that easily, Fergus. Now you think you can drag me off to some quiet corner where I’ll not embarrass you any further. You have another thing coming if that’s the case.”

“But will ye marry him?” Brice called out.

“Of course I will, are you daft?”

Fergus’s face lit up before she realized what she’d said. “Ye will?”

The sight of his shining eyes, the hope in his voice, softened her. She sank into her chair, facing him. “I will marry you, if you will still have me after what I just did.”

“Lass,” he beamed, taking her face in his hands. “I would have ye no other way.”

The rest of the room burst into laughter and cheers when they sealed their betrothment—their real, true, willing betrothment—with a kiss.